


How Heavy Lies the Head

by Drag0nst0rm



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Torture, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-11-17 21:14:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18106586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drag0nst0rm/pseuds/Drag0nst0rm
Summary: Fingolfin promised to follow his brother in all things.Everyone really wishes he hadn't fulfilled this by following his brother's example and dying in his first battle of the war.





	How Heavy Lies the Head

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own the Silmarillion.
> 
> Iamtheladyofthelake wanted "why am I in charge here?" with Maedhros and Fingon.

They had trained themselves not to weep on the Ice. It was far too dangerous.

It was safe now, in this warm new land lit by the strange new light some were calling the Sun.

Fingon still could not weep, no matter how badly he wanted to, looking down at his father’s broken form.

People kept coming up to him and asking what they should do now. He wasn’t sure why. Surely they could see he was in no state to be answering questions.

Turgon’s voice finally cut through. His voice was as dead as it had been since his wife fell through the Ice. “Fingon, snap out of it. If you don’t go talk with the Feanorians, there’s going to be an incident.”

“You do it,” Fingon said dully. 

“You’re the king now,” Turgon said flatly.

Was he? That only worked if their father - if their father had been king, a question he had refused to answer straight out. And if their father had been the king, then clearly primogeniture was not the standard they were following and so then surely - 

But Fingon was already walking toward the Feanorian banner. Soldiers fell in behind him as he walked, but he wasn’t focused on them. He was focused on all the questions he had for - his uncle? His king?

_Why did you leave us with no way to follow but the Ice? Why did you come fight by our side now? Why isn’t this nightmare over yet?_

All of those questions clogged in his throat as soon as he got within eyesight of those beneath the banner, and he saw who was wearing the crown.

“Your father?” he asked Maglor when he at last came to a halt.

“Dead,” Maglor said bleakly. “Yours?”

“Likewise.” The word burned his throat. “Your brother?”

Five of them stood around Maglor. None of them were the one that should be wearing the crown. 

“Likewise,” Maglor echoed. “Or so we devoutly hope.”

Fingon stared at him in uncomprehending horror.

“Morgoth has him,” Celegorm spat. “He has since near the beginning.”

“And you left him there?”

Caranthir surged forward, looking ready to punch him, but Amrod’s hand grabbed his shoulder and held him back.

“Of course not,” Celegorm said in disgust. “We sent half a dozen expeditions after them. At least one of us went with all of them. But the things beyond those gates … “ He went silent.

“You think you saw horror today?” Curufin asked. “True horror lurks behind that gate. If it did not fear this new light so, the day would have gone ill.”

“We lost many,” Maglor said quietly. “And we have no guarantee he yet lives. After all this time … “ He flinched a little as he continued on. “Surely he has departed for Mandos’s Halls.”

There was more after that. A lot more. Fingon thought Turgon might have picked up the main thread of it eventually which rather underlined his question of _why was he the one in charge here?_ There was talk of the need for food on their part and the need for soldiers on theirs, the deaths on the Ice and the arrows from Fingolfin’s people that had found other targets than orcs. Agreements reached, probably.

All of that bounced off the growing waves of grief and horror and determined anger that were building inside of him. He needed to move, to do something, not just to stand here, and the course of action was obvious.

“I’m going after Maedhros,” he announced in the first available silence and turned around to do just that.

Turgon snatched at his arm. For the first time in too long, there was actual emotion in his voice. Anger wasn’t his first preference, but it was something. “Fingon!”

Fingon shoved him off. “You’re the one that said I was in charge,” he pointed out. “Well, I’m going after Maedhros.” He stalked away.

“Let him go,” he heard someone advising his brother. “He’ll calm down in a few hours.”

He might have, Fingon conceded.

Presuming, of course, that he had found Maedhros by then.

 

“That’s how you decided to come after me?” Maedhros stared up at him incredulously from his sickbed.

Well, Fingon said sickbed. At this point, it was more and more resembling a desk. Maedhros certainly kept using it as such.

“Yes,” Fingon said. “Obviously, the Valar knew what they were doing when they decided you should be the elder between the two of us. You’re much better at being in charge.” As evidenced by said bed-desk, and Maedhros’s grim determination to pay perfect attention to every meeting he’d contrived to have in the healing tent practically since he’d regained consciousness and coherence. 

Someone else had already told Maedhros the basics, of course, such as the battle and - and who had been lost in it. But Maedhros had gently asked Fingon to tell his side of things, and Fingon had panicked and redirected to the aftermath.

“If I’m in charge, why didn’t you kill me?” Maedhros asked, and his tone was dry and perfect for a joke, but the words still hung between them, heavy and dangerous. 

There were a lot of things Fingon could say to that like, _because I’d lost too much family already,_ or _because you weren’t in your right mind and as sharp as your wit still is, I’m still not convinced you’ve found you way to back to said right mind yet,_ or even _because that would be treason, and we’re kinslayers, not traitors. Not yet._

What he actually said was, “Oh, was that what you were telling me to do? Your voice was so hoarse, I couldn’t make out one word in three.”

“Screaming does tend to tire one’s voice,” Maedhros agreed, still perfectly dry, but then his face grew serious. “Fingon, I’ve been thinking. I don’t think it makes sense for me to keep the crown.”

“Maglor will be … “ horrified … “thrilled.”

Maedhros shook his head. “If I abdicate in your favor, our people - “

“Forget our people, if you abdicate in my favor, your brothers will murder me in my sleep,” Fingon interrupted. 

Maedhros looked pained, and Fingon abruptly remembered that jokes about murder weren’t funny anymore.

He wasn’t entirely certain he wasn’t still right, but perhaps he shouldn’t have said it.

“We’ll spread the news that you didn’t cooperate at Losgar, get some more food in them, and it’ll all be fine,” Fingon said firmly. “Trust me. Now get some more sleep, you obviously need it if that’s the quality of plan you’re cooking up.”

“I thought I was in charge?” Maedhros said in amusement.

“Of course you are. Now go to sleep.”


End file.
